Calm down. Deep breath.
As Quinn calmed herself, everything went quiet. She heard only breathing. Hers, and Jones’s. Then she heard something else. The sound of a car approaching, slowly, very slowly, like it was looking for something specific, its electric hum quiet but distinct. The cops.
On it rolled, the hum getting louder and louder, along with the sound of tires meeting asphalt, crushing tiny particles beneath the vehicle’s weight, growing closer and closer. Then, the hum remained… but the tire noise ceased. The car had stopped. And then the engine stopped, too.
Shit.
A car door opened. Footsteps on the asphalt. Male footsteps, heavy and with long strides. And getting closer.
Quinn held her breath.
The footsteps stopped, so close that whoever it was must be looking right into that dumpster. Right at her and Jones, hidden under piles of Midtown’s detritus. Watching, listening… looking for them.
Quinn’s lungs felt tight and her face swollen from holding her breath, and her muscles ached from trying not to move a millimeter and generate even a tiny crackle of plastic. That crackle would be all it took, and they would be discovered.
Finally, Quinn opened her eyes, not realizing that she’d closed them. And that’s when she saw it. Light, a tiny prism of it. There was a hole in the front of the dumpster, one created by a mini-torch, forged by some miscreant using the dumpster as a hiding place while he kept watch for the cops… or for a victim to attack. Downtown dumpsters often had holes. The hole was visible between two bags of garbage, just a sliver of it, and only because of the light, probably from the vehicle’s headlights.
Suddenly, the light disappeared, followed by a loud bang, one too loud to her ears and one she felt throughout her entire body. Then again, harder. Quinn flinched but remained still, the noise deafening. And again, this time causing her ears to ring. The cop was using a flashlight to bang on the dumpster, hoping to scare anyone who might be hiding within enough to elicit a cry or a shift in movement.
Finally, the banging stopped, and Quinn held her breath.
More footsteps. Leading away.
Quinn let herself take a tiny breath. Just one.
Then, noise. Men talking.
“No sign of ’em.”
“Let’s go.”
The footsteps ceased and a car door shut. When the electric hum of the engine resumed, she carefully shifted a trash bag just enough so she could peer through the hole.
Her suspicions were confirmed. It was the police. A jacker unit in an unmarked car. She couldn’t see them, other than their hands fiddling with their weapons and communication devices. They were looking for her and Jones.
How was that possible? Who’d alerted them?
Quinn kept her eye on that hole, watching as the car began to move forward. Maybe she could catch a glimpse of their faces, which could prove useful in the future. Finally, she spotted the driver. He wore plainclothes, like all jacker police. He looked young and fit. He glanced over at the dumpster one last time before pulling forward and out of view, giving her a clear look at his face. The face was familiar.
It was Noah’s face.
Chapter 26
Noise. Shuffling garbage bags. It was Jones, finally emerging from their filth-ridden hiding place.
They’d been there for a while. Thirty minutes, possibly longer. Forever.
Quinn sat curled up in the dumpster, surrounded by bags filled with biological substances, their rot rapidly advanced by the summer heat. Her butt was numb from sitting on a hard surface for so long. She was hot, covered in sweat, and sick to her stomach. Her backside was soaked, her hair and neck still coated in something sticky, and she felt dizzy and overheated.
But these discomforts were nothing compared to the thoughts that haunted her, that made her want to stay in that fucking bin forever.
Their job had been thwarted. Again.
And if that wasn’t enough, the jacker police had been mere inches from them, moments from finding her and Jones and hauling them both away to spend a decade or more in prison.
Then, most unfathomable of all…
Noah.
Noah was jacker police.
Jones removed the bags that covered her, the contents of a half-torn one spilling out and landing on her feet.
“We gotta get outta here.”
She nodded absently, and stood from her hunched position, remnants of trash dropping off her as she brushed away a Kleenex stuck to her arm. Jones hopped out of the garbage bin and Quinn grabbed her shoes and tried to follow, realizing her tight dress made it difficult for her to climb over. Before she could yank up her dress and scale the thing, Jones grabbed her, easily lifting her out of the bin and setting her gently on the ground.
They headed to the subway station. Quinn kept her eyes out for any sign of cops, convinced one of them was going to appear and recognize them, or at least question them about their appearance. They probably looked worse than they smelled, which was bad.
As they approached the station, the detector buzzed again just as Quinn spotted a car parked outside. It was the same car she’d seen from the dumpster. She yanked Jones into another alley where they hid behind a dumpster and waited, praying the cops didn’t head their way. The cops would check the local subway stops, hoping to find anyone matching their description.
A while later, their proximity detector showing no signs of police activity, they left the alley and headed to the station.
The station’s restroom had dim, yellowish lighting casting a haunted pall over the place. The lights flickered now and then, and it smelled of urine. The corner was wet from a toilet that had overflowed. It was the same restroom she’d changed in earlier, but somehow it seemed far more disgusting now. Everyone knew to avoid the subway restrooms, even in Midtown, unless absolutely necessary.
She stared at herself in the smudged mirror.
Tell me, in one word, something that means everything to you.
Those were Noah’s words, the ones he’d said when they first met, what now seemed like ages ago.
Justice. That was her answer, and his. It was what had initially bonded them. And it would be the thing that ended them.
Noah was jacker police.
It all made sense now. His confidence. His drive. His ability to afford his lifestyle, with perks. Jacker police were no ordinary police. They were elite, specially trained, respected. And a mindjacker’s worst enemy.
If Noah had been an undergrounder, Protectorate special ops, a hacker, a dealer of illegal information, or pretty much anything else that didn’t go against her desire for justice, it could have worked.
But not this. Anything but this.
Quinn stripped off her jacket and dress, and used the antibacterial cleanser to wipe off her arms, face, hair, and back. No water faucets. Water was too scarce to let run free here, for anyone to use. She changed into a sundress and put on a dark wig, glad for the cover of a disguise. She didn’t want to be herself tonight.
She picked up her red sheath dress, the one she loved and had spent two jobs’ worth of money on. The entire backside was stained blackish and greasy, and it stunk like hell. She hesitated for a moment, shaking her head. Then she threw it into the garbage.
On the train, she sat next to Jones but said nothing, her mood morose and her mind heading in a hundred directions. Despite her “cleanup,” despite being out of danger, Quinn felt repulsive. Greasy, soiled, smelly… ruined.
“What the hell happened?” she finally asked.
Jones shook his head. “I got an alert. Incoming police, from the west.”
“But they came from the east.”
“They musta had some kind of scrambler. They can’t block their signal, but looks like they can scramble their location now. Was only a matter of time.”
Quinn nodded. Technology changed quickly in their world. The Protectorate techs implemented workarounds, and the cops found a way to circumvent them. The competition between the two s
erved as an endless source of innovation.
“We were set up,” she said.
“Yeah.”
Quinn shook her head. Linden knew. He’d known she was going to jack him, and he’d set them up. That’s why he’d been so agreeable. That’s why the cops showed before she could even begin to link with him, and why they knew to look for her and Jones in the dumpsters.
But how did Linden know? Even if he’d suspected that she was a mindjacker, he’d had no way of knowing for sure, and he couldn’t have known when she would come for him, or how. So he couldn’t have planned the sting ahead of time. Also, she’d been with Linden the whole time and he’d made no phone calls… so how did the cops know to come? Some kind of signal? No, that wouldn’t explain how quickly they arrived.
Then, it hit her.
Noah.
The only way Linden could have known any of that was if he was getting his information from another source, one who knew something about her and her schedule. Of all the jacker cops in the EDPD, it was Noah who showed up tonight. Linden hadn’t set them up… Noah had.
He’d been on to her the whole time. Gaming her. Getting her to like him, trust him…
A terrible dread fell upon Quinn. God, was she a fucking idiot! It all made perfect sense: his pursuit of her, his attention and adoration, when someone like him could easily attract a higher-class girl. His treating her to luxuries, finding her vulnerable spots, using them to get close to her, hoping they could Talk… all in the hopes of gleaning useful information that would help him nab her… that would let him win.
That’s why he’d avoided telling her his occupation. Why else would he hide that he was jacker police, especially given what happened to his father? It was why he cancelled so often and then tried to reschedule, knowing that the nights when she had “plans” were nights that she would strike… and he could catch her.
Jacker police were trained in psychology. They were notoriously good at manipulating people.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
She would lose her job. She would lose everything.
Panic finally struck. When Quinn felt the walls of the train closing in on her, she put her head in her hands and tried to take deep breaths, tried to push away the flood of thoughts that raced through her mind.
She felt a hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright. We gonna be alright.”
No. No we’re not.
She would have to tell Jones. But not yet. Noah didn’t know Jones, and so far he wasn’t in danger.
Then Quinn had another realization. Noah was a cop, which meant he probably knew where she lived. He could be waiting at her place right now.
She pulled out her phone and checked her monitoring system, the low-budget but effective one she’d rigged years ago, after she’d joined the Protectorate. No sign of anyone at her place.
Finally, they approached their stop and stood up.
“Your place?” Jones asked her as they made their way through the sweltering subway station.
“Sure. Assuming the cops aren’t waiting for us.”
“Why would they be waiting?”
“Why were they at Voila?
Jones nodded at that. They walked toward her place, Jones periodically checking his detector to ensure no sign of the police. Once they arrived, she led him up the stairs, floor after floor, her hand on her weapon and her over-stimulated mind looking for trouble around every corner. When they reached her apartment, there was a note on her door. Quinn felt a pit of dread in her stomach. She envisioned Noah’s angular writing, with some kind of cryptic message about who was winning now.
But it wasn’t from Noah. It was from her landlord. An eviction warning because she hadn’t paid her rent.
She crumpled up the warning and unlocked her door. Jones stopped her before she entered, nudging her aside as he went first, peering around the door for a moment before stepping inside.
Then he stopped suddenly, as if he’d seen something. Quinn emerged from behind him, wondering what captured his attention. Her closet door was open and there was clothing everywhere. Her kitchen cupboards too. Her bed had been stripped. Someone had been there.
Looking for something. Looking for her.
Then, she noticed something missing on her desk. Her computer wasn’t there. Her delphiniums lay on the floor in a puddle of water, the vase broken. Her gaze immediately shifted to her Blue Banner art.
It was gone.
Chapter 27
Quinn stood there, dumbfounded, her mind desperately scrambling to figure out what the hell had happened.
Had the cops been there? Had they been looking for her or something to nail her with?
No. If it was the cops, they would still be there. They’d have arrested her. And even the most crooked cop probably wouldn’t steal her butterfly art.
She’d been robbed. They took the only valuable things she didn’t already have with her—her computer and her art. But why didn’t she get an intrusion alert?
“What’d they take?” Jones finally said.
“My computer. And a piece of framed art.”
“Nothing else?”
“Nothing else is worth anything.”
“Anything damning on that computer?” Jones said, eyeing her.
She shook her head. She knew better than that. Her computer was only used for research, and she always cleared her search history.
“Cops can be crooked as fuck sometimes, but I ain’t ever heard of one stealin’ art.”
“Me neither.”
Unless it was one cop in particular. The one who’d given her the art. He was messing with her, violating the law to break into her place without a warrant, sending a message. Which meant he wasn’t just jacker police… he was crooked, too.
Suddenly, all that had gone wrong that night converged upon her. The failed job. The setup. The cops. Noah. And now, someone breaching her private space, taking the only things she cared about.
Quinn sank onto the floor and buried her face in her hands. “Fuck!” she cried. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!”
She knew she was being too loud, that she sounded like a crazy woman. But it was all too much. She was covered in urine and sweat and God only knew what else, stinking like rotting food and the reek of failure.
Her favorite dress was ruined.
She couldn’t pay her damned rent because of Daria’s medical bills and the cost of keeping her job.
Their job had gone wrong again, making the thing she wanted most even more remote now, knowing that the fucking Protectorate had set her up for failure, maybe because they wanted her out and had given her a job so bad that only a miracle could have saved her.
She’d come within inches of getting pinched and spending decades in prison.
And, last but not least, the guy she’d fucked and then fell for had been gaming her the entire time, and she’d fallen for it because she was that fucking pathetic.
She just sat there, fury clouding her vision, unsure what was stopping her from going to the kitchen and breaking every glass and dish.
“You alright?” Jones said, kneeling down next to her.
“No,” she said, her voice muffled by her hands.
“Hey, I get it. I been robbed too, and it feels like shit. But I’ll tell you what you told me that night at Mercy Park: we’ll get through this shit. Whatever the fuck’s going on, we’ll get on top of it.”
She shook her head, standing up again and heading to the kitchen. She tripped over her stripped bedding, infuriating her enough that she turned and kicked it hard, as if punishing it for being yet another thing in her way. She went to the fridge and took out her cold water.
“That last job,” she began. “That was the one that started all of this, this descent into hell. The one where our equipment failed and two big-ass thugs attacked us, where I bested both of them and saved my partner’s goddamn life, just to lose the data because of a torn pocket. The one that caused my partner of five years, my one and only partner, who’s been
my best friend since I was six years old, to resign. She won’t even call me back because she knows I’m still grinding.” She swigged the cold water straight from bottle, gulping it down before holding it out for Jones, who shook his head. “I was angry and I was hurt. But now I get it. She knew! She knew she’d been a sucker, believing the Protectorate’s promises and trusting that all that work over all those years would pay off, putting herself at the mercy of their whims and policies, always looking over her shoulder and always two steps away from spending decades in prison. And she was smart enough to quit wasting more time and sinking more of herself into something that would never pay off!” Quinn slammed her bottle down. “She knew!”
“Hey, I know it seems fucked up right now—”
“Fucked up?” she cried. “Jones, we almost went to prison tonight. For a job we’ve spent a ton of time on and still haven’t completed! And do you realize that if we stay in this business, we’ll always be alone? We’ll never get married, never have kids, never have shit because nobody will want to pair up with someone who does this!”
Jones’s eyes narrowed. “What’re you sayin’, Quinn?”
“I’m done.” She began pacing as Jones stood by and watched her.
“What do you mean, you’re done?”
“I’m out. I’m tired of working my ass off for nothing. Five years of hard work and risking my neck for shit pay, just to wind up in a fucking dumpster, covered in piss and slime. And for what? To get nothing! No data, no pay, no nothing!”
“Look,” he said, trying to reason with her. “We’re gonna get past this—”
“No. We aren’t.”
“You can’t give up now,” he said, his tone changing. “It ain’t just about you.”
She shook her head.
“You’re bein’ selfish,” he said, raising his voice. “I’ve risked shit too. I’ve worked my ass off for all these years too, and you weren’t the only one up to your neck in piss and slime. I got a fucken family at home, dependin’ on me. I don’t got a choice and I don’t get to walk away just because shit don’t go my way—”
Mindjacker Page 14
